Auld Lang Syne
by jane0904
Summary: A short, seasonal fiction, no OCs so anyone can read it. Set during the Unification War. Mal is on guard, and his thoughts turn to home. Happy New Year!


According to the sky, it was probably some time after midnight. The moon was on its downward path towards the horizon, and in a few hours the sun would struggle into view, giving an illusion of warmth were there was none. For the moment, though, he could imagine that only the stars above him, bright and brittle, were his companions on this little rock.

Of course, to do that he had to ignore the fact that an Alliance unit were entrenched a hundred yards away from him, and his own men – and women – were hunkered down in the trees, trying not to be seen or heard. Hopefully they were also getting some sleep, but he doubted it. Too ready for fight or flight, if he knew them.

A voice from the purplebelly camp shivered through the cold air as the watch changed, and a shuffling indicated someone heading back to their tent and not worrying about anyone listening.

A half-smile tilted his lips. Maybe they'd be lucky, and when the morning came the enemy would move on towards the town, and they'd be able to get back to their battalion without firing a single shot.

Something caught at his nostrils, a perfume, somehow familiar ... wood smoke. The prevailing breeze, what little there was of it, had dragged the scent from one of the camp fires turning back the night, ticking his senses in more ways than one. Tickling his memories, too.

His mother was always up early, even on a day like today. Making up the fires, turning the chilled house into a place of warmth and comfort, of a ready welcome.

A day like today. He knew, even without looking at the watch in his pocket – even if he could have seen the dial – that on Shadow it was first thing, the tip of the sun peaking over the edge of the world. He had always known, no matter what planet he'd been on, no matter what the local time or date. Some of his comrades had laughed at him at first, saying he was crazy, that nobody could possibly keep track of time that way. Then they'd checked and stopped talking.

He always figured he must have carried a little bit of his home with him, perhaps in the dust on his boots, or just in the love in his heart, but he knew, and with his mind's eye turned outwards he could see his mother getting things prepared.

He looked up at the stars, and wrapped his brown coat a little tighter about him. Perhaps it was only an imitation, but there was something about this moon, strung out on the edge of nowhere, that reminded him of home. And when the war was done, and the Alliance brought to justice, he'd head back to his, maybe walk from the town on a clear day like this would become, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his coat flapping about his knees, ready to settle down. And his mother would come running out into the cold air, and he'd drop everything, wrapping her in the warmth of the brown leather and his aching arms, and he'd scold her for coming out in the cold, and she'd scold him for being away for so long.

"Sir."

He half-turned, not surprised that she'd managed to creep up on him, her whisper barely reaching his own ears, let alone anyone else's. "Zoe. Everything okay?"

"Yes, sir." She always called him 'sir'. Even when they had some downtime and he made her go into a bar with him, buying her drinks so she could relax. Always 'sir'.

"It's cold," he said inconsequentially, as if she might not have noticed.

"Yes, sir. I brought you this." She held out an insulated mug.

"Coffee?"

"Possibly."

He took it, pushing back the lid enough so the aroma could reach him. It always smelled a lot better than it tasted. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She turned to go.

"Zoe."

"Sir?"

"It's gone midnight."

"That it has."

"Happy New Year."

He could see her smiling, the starlight reflecting from her teeth in that dark, beautiful face.

"And to you, sir." A moment later and she was gone, back to her charges, to the men and women who survived because of them.

He took another sniff at the liquid, knowing it had been chemically heated, but not caring. Tomorrow the Alliance would move on, and they'd be able to get home.

And his mother would run, he would scold, and he'd feel the warmth of his family around him. Then they'd head inside, into the comfort and the welcome, and the scent of the specially prepared log on the flames that shook the old year off their heels, bringing in the new to gaze at, all sparkling and full of promise.


End file.
